The Texan's Contract Marriage - By Sara Orwig Page 0,69
confusion and alarm she’d been feeling since her doctor’s visit that afternoon. Resolve, she ruthlessly reminded herself, not hesitation and definitely not fear.
“He’s running late.” Sandy Haniford’s shout sounded shrill in Cara’s ear.
Sandy was a junior staffer in the White House press office, where Cara worked as a public relations specialist. While Cara was moving from ball to ball tonight with the president’s entourage, Sandy was stationed here as liaison to the American News Service event.
“Only by a few minutes,” Cara shouted back, her eyes still on Max.
Resolve, she repeated to herself. The unexpected pregnancy might have tipped her world on its axis, but it didn’t change her job tonight. And it didn’t alter her responsibility to the president.
“I was hoping the president would get here a little early,” Sandy continued, her voice still raised. “We have a last-minute addition to the speaker lineup.”
Cara twisted her head; Sandy’s words had instantly broken Max’s psychological hold on her. “Come again?”
“Another speaker.”
“You can’t do that.”
“It’s done,” said Sandy.
“Well, undo it.”
The speakers, especially those at the events hosted by organizations less than friendly to the president, had been vetted weeks in advance. American News Service was no friend of President Morrow, but the cable network’s ball was a tradition, so he’d had no choice but to show up.
It was a tightly scripted appearance, with only thirty minutes in the Worthington ballroom. He would arrive at ten forty-five—well, ten fifty-two as it turned out—then he was to leave at eleven-fifteen. The Military Inaugural Ball was next on the schedule, and the president had made it clear he wanted to be on time to greet the troops.
“What do you want me to do?” asked Sandy. “Should I tackle the guy when he steps up to the microphone?” Sarcasm came through her raised voice.
“You should have solved the problem before it came to that.” Cara lifted her phone to contact her boss, White House Press Secretary Lynn Larson.
“Don’t you think I tried?”
“Obviously not hard enough. How could you give them permission to add a new speaker?”
“They didn’t ask,” Sandy pointed out with a frown. “Graham Boyle himself put Mitch Davis on the agenda for a toast. Two minutes, they say, tops.”
Mitch Davis was a star reporter for ANS. Graham Boyle might be the billionaire owner of the network, and the sponsor of this ball, but even he didn’t get to dictate to the president.
Cara couldn’t help an errant glance at Max. As the most popular investigative reporter at ANS’s rival, National Cable News, he was a mover and shaker himself. He might have some insight into what was up. But Cara couldn’t ask him about this or anything else to do with her job, not now and not ever again.
Cara pressed a speed-dial button for her boss.
It rang but then went to voice mail.
She hung up and tried again.
She could see that the president had arrived at the head table, in front of and below the stage. He was accepting the congratulations of the smartly dressed guests. The men wore Savile Row tuxedos, while the woman were draped in designer fabrics that shimmered under the refracted light of several dozen crystal chandeliers.
The MC, popular ANS talk show host David Batten, returned to the microphone. He offered a brief but hearty welcome and congratulations to the president before handing the microphone over to Graham Boyle. According to the schedule, Graham had three minutes to speak. Then the president would have one dance with the female chair of a local hospital charity and a second with Shelley Michaels, another popular ANS celebrity. That was to be followed by seven minutes at his table with ANS board members before taking his leave.
Cara gave up on her cell phone and started making her way toward the stage. There was a staircase at either end, nothing up the middle. So she knew she had a fifty-fifty chance of stopping Mitch Davis before he made it to the microphone. Too bad she wasn’t a little larger, a little brawnier, maybe a little more male.
Once again, her thoughts turned to Max. The man dodged bullets in war-torn cities, scaled mountains to reach rebel camps and fought his way through crocodiles and hippos for stories on the struggles of indigenous people. If Max Gray didn’t want a person up onstage, that person was not getting up onstage. Too bad she couldn’t enlist his help and would have to rely on her own wits.
She chose the stairs at stage right, wending her way through the